


They Say Girls Marry Men Like Their Fathers.

by fictionnotfiction



Category: Original Work
Genre: (trying to move on), Abuse, Anxiety, Bitterness, Caring, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Violence, Flash Fic, Future, Grief/Mourning, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Introspection, Moving On, Other, POV First Person, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Abuse, comparisons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26035765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionnotfiction/pseuds/fictionnotfiction
Summary: When Bruce is loving me, it can be hard to not think about the way his hands wrapped around my mother’s neck and how they say girls marry men like their fathers.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	They Say Girls Marry Men Like Their Fathers.

I can still see him wrapping his hands around her neck and choking her. I see it clearer than the sky on the bluest day. It hurts me when I see it – the anger flashing in his eyes. It hurts me when I smell the sweat and the whiskey, dribbling down his chin as he spits out hate. It hurts me when I hear her strangled groan. It hurts me when I feel my fingers trembling against the grooves of the wall while his claws dig into her neck and draw blood. Every time I relive it, my heart skips eight beats. That was the night when everything changed. 

Even though I’m a few years away, the memory of that night plays on the back of my lids whenever I think of him. I think I liked my father before that night, but now all I can think about is how he hurt her. Everything I felt about him before that day shattered, and I haven’t been able to put the pieces back into something I can live with – a sentiment towards him that I can manage – that doesn’t make my blood boil and my stomach turn. 

What scares me the most is that the violence I saw that night wasn’t the first or the last time he would lay his hands on her. Instead, that incident was only one on a long, frayed string of abuse and jealousy and rage. The only time I wasn’t scared was when I left: it was the day after the night he choked her and lied by saying he didn’t, as if he hadn’t seen me in the corner of his eye. Of course, he was lying to both of us – we both knew I had seen everything. So, I packed a bag and drove off to be with a man much older, who doesn’t choke and is calm.

His name is Bruce, and I’m staring at him right now from across a kitchen table. It’s the morning, and Bruce is the sort of man who works a job to make money. I’ve chosen to be the sort of woman who wakes up early to make my working man a breakfast.

Bruce is tall with tawny skin and short, curly, charcoal hair which has an even spread of gray. He is a man who smiles and a man who touches and a man who loves me.

When Bruce leaves the house, I pretend to clean, and watch trash TV, and write letters to my mother. Ever since I left, I’ve written a letter to her every day. Once a week I mail them, and every two weeks she responds. We don’t write about much – just detail the shows we both watch and books we’ve read and memories that aren’t so tainted by the tension. I never ask how he’s doing. 

Sometimes I wish he’s doing badly, but I know my mother would like for him to be doing well. Every once in a while, she will tell me that he is doing better, and trying. No one but her can see it. Mostly she just tells me about her childhood in rural East Arkansas. I do this and make dinner until Bruce comes home. 

My heart throbs a little less when Bruce comes home and brings with him the spicy smell of cinnamon and a balmy kiss, slouched but grinning in his pinstripe navy suit. After we eat dinner, I’ll sit on his lap with a book, and he’ll talk about his day while we watch the evening news. He tells me about the people who work for him and the mistakes they made and the mistakes he made and how he plans on rectifying them. 

Once he’s done, he peppers my neck with kisses and tells me how beautiful my chest is. When Bruce is loving me, it can be hard to not think about the way his hands wrapped around my mother’s neck and how they say girls marry men like their fathers. 

Bruce doesn’t choke me, though. 

His hands never leave my waist, and his lips only drip with Blackburn syrup. 

I know I’ll never be rid of that flicker of violence: that it’ll stick around in the back of my mind as an unwelcome but familiar passenger. I can only hope that there are no more illusions in my life to shatter, no more figures to be lost.

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I can't get it out of my head.


End file.
